


I swear I'll make you bleed If you break my heart again

by smaragdbird



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Despair, Introspection, M/M, Murder, Violent Thoughts, perceived mercy killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 07:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17524340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/pseuds/smaragdbird
Summary: What was Hickey thinking as he killed Gibson?





	I swear I'll make you bleed If you break my heart again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dottore_polidori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottore_polidori/gifts).



> So I saw your letter and how you liked to read something about people dealing with mortality and that you liked Hickey's dynamic with Gibson and I just couldn't stop writing this idea. 
> 
> Hope you like it :)

As he was talking to Hodgson, he noticed Billy walking up to Goodsir from the corner of his eye and them disappearing inside the tent. Something cold gripped his gut. There was only one reason why Billy would talk to Goodsir in private, but that reason was not part of his plan. If anything, Billy would be the last to die or rather he wouldn’t die at all. If at the end only him and Billy would reach Fort Resolute alive, that’d be more than fine by him. The others were disposable. They were food and they were enough that he and Billy could feast like kings on their way south. They wouldn’t suffer from the poison in the tins.

Maybe that was why he gave it a few moments before he followed Billy and Goodsir. He couldn’t be forced to act on something he didn’t know about.

Billy was sitting in front of Goodsir just in his shirt, scarf and coat put aside. He clamped down on the feeling of jealousy that flared up at the mere thought that Goodsir would’ve had to touch Billy to examine him. He reached for Billy’s shoulder and stepped between him and Goodsir before kneeling down.

“Are you not well, Billy?” Perhaps it was something else, something he hadn’t thought about, anything but the truth edged into Billy’s gaunt face. He had always been lean but the months of reduced rations and hard work had wasted him down to nothing but skin and bones.

When Billy admitted to the pain in his knee, his hand dropped down to it, wrapping around it as if he could force it to stop hurting by sheer force of will.

“Can he still haul tomorrow?” He asked Goodsir as if it would make a difference if it was tomorrow or the day after or the day after that. His other hand found Billy’s almost by accident, the tips of his fingers curling around it.

“I’d be very surprised.” Goodsir didn’t have to say it like that. He could’ve lied, as if that would have mattered. As if it hadn’t been plain to see for everyone already. Billy had limped since they had broken off from the bigger group and it had only gotten worse since. Billy knew, he knew, the others knew. It had always only been a matter of time, he just hadn’t wanted to see it.

“I can…I can…” Billy’s broken insistence pulled him back to the undeniable reality of it. 

“Hey, be calm, Billy, be calm.” He leaned in, feeling Billy’s forehead touch his own. Goodsir already despised him, what did it matter if he knew that he was an invert, a sodomite, a pervert or any of the other words for men like him? He had been taken on this journey to save them, but he saw clearly now that Goodsir couldn’t save anyone. 

“We’ll make the best of a bad situation”, he rested his hand over Billy’s chest where he knew the ring was, that stupid piece of metal, meant as bribery and somehow Billy had turned it into something else like an alchemist turning lead to gold. “Like we always have.”

He smiled at Billy, because it was the mask he perfected, because if he didn’t…if he didn’t the pain in his chest would kill him like thorns winding themselves through his veins. For a moment, as he looked at Billy, as he took in his face, his eyes, the curls sweeping his forehead, his cheekbones and lips one last time, he imagined giving in.

Letting him limp on behind them until his legs would give in; forcing the others to carry Billy as he became weaker and weaker and eventually, he’d slip into a fever and die. It would be long and agonising as it had been for the men he had seen die on Terror. 

A part of him he had long thought dead wanted to rage against the heavens, against the unfairness of it all. If he thought it would help, he would slaughter the others, bathe Billy in their blood or burn their bodies as a sacrifice, anything to keep him alive.

He knew it was pointless. Miracles only existed on the pages of books and if there ever had been gods, they had left this world long ago. Billy would die, it was not a question of if, it was a question of when and how. 

He smiled because it hurt, hurt more than the lashing, hurt more than Billy mocking him, hurt so badly he couldn’t breathe and felt tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. It was too much. He needed to leave, needed to do it before the pain would overwhelm him. He couldn’t be weak, not now, not when it would cost Billy so dearly.

Rising to his feet, he felt Billy trying to hold on to his sleeve as he buried a hand in Billy’s hair and leaned close enough to breathe in his scent once more. Billy’s grip wasn’t strong, he was already too sick far that, and yet it felt like he had to rip himself apart.

It was for the best, he reminded himself as he strode towards their tent as quickly as he could. It was a mercy, it would spare Billy a worse fate. 

Their blankets and furs were in a messy heap and Billy had smiled earlier when he had pulled him close and kissed him. The knife was where he had left it when they had made camp. It had the wrong name and initials carved into it. Billy had done that, a token of appreciation for saving them from the carnival fire months ago. Billy couldn’t have known it was the wrong name; he had never told him though he had often wished to.

If he had known it would be the last time, he would’ve changed that. He would’ve whispered his name between Billy’s shoulder blades this morning, would’ve asked to call him by it just once.

But he hadn’t known today would be the last. He thought they would have more time and now it was too late. He knew if he hesitated now, even if just for moment longer, he wouldn’t be able to do it.

He knew how to kill quickly, that was the only comfort he had left to offer to Billy. It wouldn’t be like it had been with Irving and Farr. He knew Billy’s body well as his own. Once would be enough.

Gripping the knife tightly, he turned around and stalked back to Goodsir’s tent. The others were watching him, he could feel it and didn’t care. They were meaningless. 

Stabbing Billy in the back felt like stabbing any other man except that at the same time it felt as if he was driving the blade into his own body as well. He slung his other arm across Billy’s chest, holding him close, holding him like he had held him this morning.

i’m sorry, he wanted to say, i’m sorry i couldn’t save you, it’ll be over soon, i promise, don’t fight it, i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry

He glared at Goodsir when he tried to intervene as if he could’ve saved Billy, as if he could’ve spared him the pain and the slow, agonising death that would’ve followed. Goodsir had failed and he had no right to put his hands on Billy, no right to touch him, no right to prolong his suffering. Billy belonged to him, only and forever to him.

Goodsir had failed in the only purpose he had and failure needed to be punished. He would find something that would make him that would hurt Goodsir as much as Billy’s death hurt him.

It was over in less than a minute. He could feel Billy’s life go out of him like he had with so many other men and suddenly all he was left with was this empty shell. Some people said corpses looked like they were sleeping but that was bullshit. The body in his arms didn’t resemble Billy at all, awake or asleep. There was nothing left in it that had made it Billy.

He withdrew the knife, feeling blood stain his fingers, and let the body collapse. A part of him almost wished he would feel even a sliver of guilt but there was nothing there. No guilt, no grief, no anger, no relief, nothing. 

Just emptiness.


End file.
